


For You Alone

by BenevolentErrancy



Series: Nature in Defiance of Nomenclature [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, era-appropriate misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk through Paris leaves Grantaire with doubts and insecurities, and Enjolras struggles to understand what's compelling these barbed comments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Like most of this series, this stands alone as a short oneshot, or can be read as part of the evolution of Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship and their understanding of each other.

Enjolras was relieved to be able to step off the busy Parisian street onto the stoop of the rooms he was renting. For all he reveled in the thrumming lifeblood of his city, in the _people_ – the little, everyday people that struggled on under a tyrant’s thumb, freeing a living from the crushing heap of oppression that was lain on their heads – he was more than ready to be away from the crowd and noise and smell for the day. An ache was building in his temple, and he sincerely wished to fling his hat across his room, pull the drapes, and settle onto the settee with the copy of _Candide_ he had only recently began.

Or perhaps settle onto the settee with the man who had lent him the book – perhaps to discuss the abhorrent ideals it was portraying or to engage in… other matters.

Enjolras stole a glance at Grantaire as he fished for his key, only to pause and frown. Grantaire was leaning against the building’s side, arms crossed as he waited for Enjolras, but his expression was troubled. It had been, in fact, since before they had entered the _arrondissement_. At first Enjolras had simply assumed Grantaire had seen someone he was at odds with across the street, or that he too was feeling exhausted by the business of the day. After being so intimately acquainted with the unpredictable currents of emotions that Grantaire was so often subjected to, Enjolras could only hope that being able to withdraw from the world and relax would waylay any dark moods that might be approaching.

Enjolras had no sooner unlocked his door and let them both into his sparse rooms than Grantaire spoke, sounding just as dour as he had looked on the stoop.

“I was just thinking more about that young lady you introduced me to,” he said. “Mlle Ayotte? She seemed agreeable.”

“Well enough,” agreed Enjolras. They had run into the young Mlle Ayotte about an hour ago, and since she was of Enjolras’ acquaintance they had stopped to greet her. She was the daughter of a friend of Enjolras’ father. He recalled she had a strange fascination for painted flowers based off one dinner party they had both attended – or perhaps she had been as bored as he had been and had taken refuge in the unfortunate paintings his mother had hung in the hall that season – regardless though he knew little about her beyond that. But for Grantaire to bring it up now... could that be what was troubling him? Enjolras couldn’t imagine what of this recent interaction would have Grantaire so put off, they had done little but exchange pleasantries. They certainly hadn't spoken long enough for Grantaire to catch wind of her painting preference and have whatever artistry lived in his soul to become mortally offended.

“It seemed to me,” Grantaire continued in a tone that was clearly meant to be flippant but was so barbed that Enjolras felt himself tensing, “that Mlle Ayotte was quite a pretty young lady.”

“…Yes, I suppose so,” said Enjolras carefully.

It had been his experience that women, no matter the age, class, or disposition, were inevitably “pretty”. When it doubt, it could usually be safely assumed that a woman was “pretty” no matter what she looked like, and expressing anything otherwise in mixed company was nearly more dangerous than Les Amis’ recent gunpowder escapades… and much more volatile. It was convenient though, as Enjolras did not have the eye for women that so many of his fellows seemed to. A dress was a dress as far as he could tell, and Enjolras was already baffled by the amount of time Courfeyrac could spend on his hair, never mind the elaborate set-ups of some young women, so “pretty” was agreeably safe and generic. Though if prettiness were to truly be debated, Enjolras feared it would inevitably lead to him simply admitting that the rich brown of Grantaire’s eyes held much more allure than any young lady’s pinked cheeks or arched lips, and the scratch of stubble along his cheek and chin drew him infinitely than the arches and curves of a lady’s body.

“I figured you must think so,” said Grantaire.

“Are you going somewhere with this?” asked Enjolras, exhausted. He took his hat off, relieved to lift the pressure of it from his sore head, and shed his coat.

Grantaire shrugged and dropped heavily onto Enjolras’ settee, keeping his own hat in his lap where he spun in absently in his hands. Enjolras knew the value Grantaire held towards physical closeness and followed him down, sitting with his leg flush to Grantaire’s and his hand on Grantaire’s knee, hoping to draw out whatever it was that had his fellow so upset.

“I’m simply musing on how every man holds love for women,” said Grantaire, voice heavy and flat with resignation, like an old coat weighed down with rain. “It’s quite unavoidable, even if it may be pressed beneath a more deviant desire. How could the temporary embrace of a man possibly contest with the warmth of a woman? A man offers hedonistic immediacy, while the woman offers a future. And while the hedonistic now may be pleasing for those of us with no greater ambitions, there are others who will always having their sights set on the future.”

Something cold settled deep in Enjolras chest. He drew away from Grantaire, hands wavering uncertainly in the air; he reached his hands instinctively to hold Grantaire, to cling to him and refuse to let him go, yet with the same mind he wished to both recoil them and curl them in fists. In the end, the latter won out, knuckles whitening as Enjolras took hold of a flame of budding anger and let it grow. It was easier to feel that heat than the coldness of dread and rejection.

“Is that how you feel?” Enjolras demanded. “If this is your attempt to soften some blow do not patronize me with platitudes.”

For a moment, Grantaire simply gawked at Enjolras, as if not understanding his words, before horror flashed across his face. “Of course not! I would– how could you suspect that I–?” He scowled. “If I speak platitudes, they are for myself alone. You are the forward thinking one, not I.”

“You think that… _I_ might desire a woman’s intimacy?” asked Enjolras. His distaste must have been evident because Grantaire cocked a brow at him. Enjolras gave an exasperated sigh and dragged a hand restlessly through his hair. This was not a matter he relished speaking about, as he himself struggled to make sense of it – it had been enough of a struggle with Combeferre, and he was a man of science, of inquisition. “I have no desire for women at all,” he said simply. “I have told you as such.”

“Why, because they can not speak to you of revolution?” asked Grantaire flippantly. “There are educated women, for all you denounce their existence. Wild young creatures that have notions of books and fire beyond the sitting rooms made for them. I could introduce you.”

Enjolras resisted the urge to argue the exact place for women in a revolution. As far as he was concerned it was entirely against the natural order of things – he was not blind to the fact that women participated, but felt firmly that it was because of the unnatural conditions such oppression forced them all to. He did not wish to encourage it. That was besides the point.

“I am perfectly aware that there are pleasant women to be around, Grantaire. Think you I only keep the company of men? I have had many fine conversations with the fairer sex. Yet I do not consider them for such a… an intimate capacity. Why do you fight me on this, will you not trust my words?”

“Your words don’t match your actions!” Grantaire snapped. “You are a cerberus, speaking me sweet words with one head while turning your remaining sight to finer pursuits! You claim not to consider them yet you give them no end of consideration.” Grantaire voice lost its fire nearly as quickly as he’d found it, and he drooped limply back against the settee.

Enjolras was about to argue back because at no point has he ever desired a woman in such a way – the shame of that personal failure had been a constant companion, thank you, so he should know – when a realization kindled. “You surely aren’t referring to our discussion with Mlle Ayotte?”

Grantaire shifted uncomfortably, showing without a doubt that this was the very thing to which he had been referring.

“Not just her,” Grantaire said at length, head bowed, voice small. “You can not deny you have the tendency to dote of young ladies. You offer them a gentle voice and a gentle hand, and that is not something I mean to begrudge. I am a coarse soul, and I would mar that sort of tenderness, but your affections are very plain. I have never seen your show such allowance to any man in our mutual acquaintance.” _Never seen you show such allowance to me_ , hung in the air, unsaid.

The heat from Enjolras anger had fully abated, and it was with a chagrined heart that Enjolras eased himself back onto the settee next to Grantaire; he entwined their hands.

“I had never considered that such treatment was something you needed,” Enjolras said gently. “Or desired. I have seen how you act among our friends and acquaintances, you have never seemed to invite or tolerate patronization; you have always seemed the sort to rebuke gentleness and instead invite competition.”

Grantaire scoffed. “I’ll admit I have no desire for Bahorel to hold me by the elbow or whisper me sweet nothings. But…” He glanced up, peeking an uncertain glance at Enjolras.

And Enjolras bent his head to meet Grantaire’s, pressing his lips to his with what could only ever be called gentleness. It was brief but when he pulled back he kept a hand on Grantaire’s cheek and their foreheads nearly touching.

“I am gentle to women, because they invite gentleness. I misread your meanings, and for that I apologize. But let me be clear in mine: I am for you alone. Do not doubt that.”

For a moment Grantaire just stared at him, as if trying to drink any every word, before offering a smirk and knocking their heads together.

“So the great Apollo has a tender heart after all.”

“Don’t tell anyone, it is for you alone.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just so we're clear, there is intentionally confusion about sexuality and gender just because of the era it's coming from.  
> Grantaire is bi and generally assumes (wrongly, obviously) that anyone interested in the same sex is also, in some capacity, also interested in the opposite sex just because that’s what he experiences. Enjolras is asexual homoromantic, so he definitely isn’t. They’re both pretty generally confused by their sexualities but are Doing Their Bests. Also, based off my reading of the brick, I do tend to portray canon era E as misogynistic


End file.
